


There Isn't Much Left (To Say)

by wyvernisgod



Category: The Suicide Theory
Genre: Gen, Last word tattoos how fun, M/M, Soulmate AU, WHY DO I HATE MYSELF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernisgod/pseuds/wyvernisgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven loses Annie, finds Percival, and doesn't understand until it's too late to change their fates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Isn't Much Left (To Say)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Two whole fics in two whole days-- that's unheard of from me! I know the whole "soulmate tattoo" thing is cliche, but I really like it, and... Well. You clicked on it, didn't you?

Steven had been born a (physically) healthy child: ten fingers, ten toes, lungs big and strong and heart furiously pumping blood to his brain and beyond. And, like most children, he had been born with his soulmate's last words written across his skin. He was actually quite lucky in the placement of his mark (on the inside of his right forearm, two words, very simple) -- he knew a guy who had been born with his straight across his forehead, big blocky letters in dark green.

He had learned from a young age that his words were very common, almost laughably so. But it wasn't the words that made his mark different from someone else's-- it was the way they were shaped. A curly T filled in the space from the top to the bottom of the underside of his arm; four more letters were crowded in, as if a hasty afterthought. The second word was the same way, with a high and wide Y and two smaller, less intimidating letters following, with a period making it grammatically correct.

_Thank You._

One of his teachers had told him that cursive script, especially script like that, was uncommon. It was especially uncommon in its size, taking up most of his right arm. Steven reasoned that at least it was somewhere easy to hide-- he would rather have a large fancy couple of words than on his chest, like his father's, or on the inside of his leg, like his mom. His was easy to keep to himself, especially in winter, even if it was strangely big.

When he had met Annie, he knew that she was the one. She had to be. He loved her like he had never loved someone before. And she loved him, even though she knew about his past. Even though she knew about his time in jail, or the way he would come home battered and bruised as if he had been in a fight (she didn’t know that each time, it ended much worse than a regular brawl—there was only one person walking away from the kind of fights he picked). Every time he looked at her, his heart ached with happiness, and he felt giddy, not tethered to the harsh realities of life. She was his best friend, his confidant; the very definition of a soul mate.

He found out what her mark was on one of their dates-- he had forgotten the number, and didn't really care to remember it. She had pulled up her blouse, revealing a small phrase in thin, neatly spaced type on her hip. It looked like the kind of font that old typewriters used to use; not ornate, but, in its own way, ancient.

_There's an ice cream shop on the next corner, I think._

They had been in her flat, sitting in front of the television, the night dark and comforting around them. When she showed him, he had touched it gently, fingers running over flat, soft skin, and she had said (in that daring and teasing way she had), "Alright, now show me yours. It's on your right arm, yeah?"

Steven had nodded, rolling up his sleeve, and she had taken his arm in her warm hands and smiled down at the words there. She said, teasingly, "Such manners! Obviously you never learned to be as polite as your soulmate." He had laughed, and they had kissed, and that was that.

The night she died, coming out of the opera house, they had been discussing where to get dinner. She was so beautiful in her dress, the lights of the city shining in her eyes, and Steven decided right there that they would go for ice cream, to celebrate everything they had and everything to come. As they stood on the crosswalk, he turned to her and said the words, those fateful words that marked the end. "There's an ice cream shop... on the next corner, I think."

Neither of them registered the words. The physical proof was on her hip, but it was covered by a dress and the exhilaration of the night, and she started to reply as a car's headlights filled their world with disaster. "Thank you--"

And then she was ripped from him, gone in a single instant, and the words burned on his skin as he held her and cried. It had been so fast, a simple exchange of words, and now they would never speak again.

* * *

 

Her funeral was simple, a few close friends and family. Steven didn't remember much of it-- most of his memories for a good month after the accident were a blur, full of sounds and sights that passed right through him. There were small things he could recall, like a stack of books on the couch or his wedding band, rolled to the back of the bedside drawer, but precious else.

He didn't know how he would survive without her. He didn't know if he could. The only way to keep going was through thoughts of revenge, so he bought a gun and decided that he would avenge her at any cost.

It was better than wasting away from doing nothing, surely.

* * *

 

Meeting Percival on the train for the first time, Steven is absolutely positive that he’s crazy. But he doesn’t seem crazy like Steven is. No, Steven is filled with rage, quiet and undemanding, simmering below the surface. Percival is another kind, the kind that believes that everything happens for a reason, that fate controls the universe, that free will is an illusion. He explains this, or at least tries to. Steven scoffs. “Say I was to shoot you, right here, right now? Would that all be part of fate’s master plan for the universe?”

Percival huffs out a breath, the corners of his mouth turning up only slightly. “Right now? No, it wouldn't work. It hasn’t before.”

That gave him pause. “You’ve attempted this before?”

Percival does laugh at that, almost astounded. “Can you not see my face? Of course I’ve attempted this before. It never works.”

Steven leans back, crossing his arms, and cocks his head, murmuring levelly, “People kill themselves all the time. Usually when they fail at suicide it's because they didn't actually want to kill themselves at all. Usually... it's for attention. Desperate cry for help.”

Percival nods, smiling as though he expects Steven to say this. “Yeah? Does this look like I’m not trying? Look like I’m just going for attention?” He gestures to his face, the scars, the wicked looking one at his throat, and Steven has to admit that no, no it doesn’t.

When he leaves, it’s with a large amount of money, a warm gun (three bullets lighter than when he boarded), and a strange taste in the back of his throat. No one reports anything amiss, and he assumes that his job is done. He felt almost reluctant to shoot the man; it wasn’t because he felt bad about killing someone, but because Percival had seemed like a good guy who was down on his luck.

His arm aches from the recoil of the gun, but even when he takes painkillers for it, the hurt is still there, festering in his bones just below the cursive that reminds him of his biggest failure.

* * *

 

The fact that Percival lives is, honestly, a miracle. Steven has shot him seven times now, in two different places, but there he sits, smiling sadly down at his drink in the dark. Steven feels guilty, in the little part of him that can still process emotions, so he decides to indulge the shorter man and find out what exactly it is that could help Percival along to the other side.

The conversation is… awkward, and Steven is reeling at the new information Percival gives him (especially the part about liking men)—at least, until Percival murmurs, “Christopher's mark… his and mine matched up, but after I tried to kill myself the first time, it... changed.”

Steven blinks, leaning forward. “Whaddaya mean, changed? Marks don’t change.”

Percival shrugs, nodding. “I know, but mine did. I woke up in the hospital, they told me how lucky I was to be alive, and then… I found it. Three words, right here.” He taps his collarbone, and Steven has the urge to ask him what it says—he’s never heard of a mark changing, not just like that.

But, then, Percival is an exceptional case.

He feels an intense tug of pity for the man, in the moment, so he does something completely unlike him—he walks to the bar and picks up a man for Percival to sleep with. The killer inside of him argues that it’s only a means to an end, but a smaller part whispers that it’s possible he actually cares about Percival.

He tells it to shut the fuck up and pays the guy on the spot, $300 with a promise of $200 more after the night is over.

* * *

 

The morning after leaves them outside, Percival devastated and Steven uncaring as always.

“He was a good man. Saw past my face and he liked me...for who I was. Made me feel like I was somebody.” Percival looks gloomy, as though the man was someone he had known personally, and Steven feels a rising tide of impatience (and is that a hint of… jealousy?)

“Yeah well, that's what he was paid to do.” The words hit Percival like a physical object; he jerks away from them, and then his face crumples, and Steven regrets saying it. Percival never had to know, but of course Steven had to go and fuck up his only good night in… months, probably.

“Excuse me?” The words are almost breathless, incredulous, tentative. Steven sighs.

“I paid him to have sex with you.” Percival’s lip wobbles, and he turns away. Steven laughs a little bit, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on. Really, you going to cry? I'm going home, call me when you're done.”

And then Percival has his hands tangled in Steven’s shirt, pushing him out over the edge of the curb, and the fear hits him like a shot of whiskey in the back of his throat. “This isn't a fucking game, Steven,” Percival hisses, and his hands tighten as though he’s about to throw Steven backwards into traffic—and then he looks into the taller man’s eyes, sees the terror there, the animal panic, and backs off, swallowing hard. They stand there, staring at each other, until Percival lowers his eyes and turns to leave.

* * *

 

Neither of their attempted one night stands goes well, but, Steven thinks to himself, at least he didn’t end up in the fucking hospital.

As soon as he thinks that he wants to take it back, because Percival really looks crushed. The machines surround him like concerned family, but Steven is the only one to visit.

They talk, and Steven tells Percival about his childhood. He explains the story of his father and the table; even though he winces to remember it, it’s one of the few times in his childhood he can remember having his dad’s full attention, at least for a moment. Their conversation strays to Percival’s mark, because Steven can see a hint of it poking out of the bandages on Percival’s chest. Percival sighs. “I can’t really move without quite a lot of pain right now, so if you really want to know, you’ll have to move the gauze yourself.”

Steven stands, leaning over the injured man, and hesitates for a moment before carefully peeling back the bandage there. Three words, just as Percival had said in the club, in a dark burgundy that looks disturbingly like dried blood. The font is simple, thick letters spelling out a humble phrase that makes Steven raise his eyebrows in surprise.

_I forgive you._

He sits back down, nodding, and can’t help but feel like he’s intruding on a private part of Percival’s life. Marks aren’t exactly flaunted, considering what they are, but Percival did agree to let him see it—wasn’t like he looked while the man was sleeping, or something.

Before he has time to think about it, Percival says, in an almost cheerful tone, “Well, you’ve seen mine. Can I see yours, or is that too… does it pull up bad memories?”

Steven stares at him, considering, and without breaking eye contact he rolls up his right sleeve and angles it so Percival can see. This time it’s the other man who raises his eyebrows, murmuring, “Wow. Never seen one that big before.” Steven snorts, unable to help himself, and Percival rolls his eyes, muttering, “You know what I mean.” He reaches out, thick fingers shaking just a touch, and gently traces the T's curve. His hand feels nice on Steven's skin, soothing, like the sun on a cloudless day or warm water after a cold night. It feels so much like all those years ago, in Annie’s flat, that Steven pulls back, a little disturbed. When Percival’s hand breaks contact with his skin, it feels like a circuit has been turned off, like something is missing, but Steven doesn’t really notice, because Percival starts talking about good and evil, and Steven realizes what he has to do to make things right again.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy to kill the three men who have come to rough him up. It’s even easier to maim the ringleader, considering what he did to Percival. Just remembering how the man looked, small and weak and vulnerable in the hospital bed, is enough to drive his blood to a boil. His chest feels light as he disappears into the night, and he uses some of Percival’s money to buy flowers. Percival seems like the kind of man who likes flowers in vases. A visit to the man's flat, uninvited, will give him better insight into his life, he thinks. Finding out what kind of person he is will surely help him in his quest to--

He remembers exactly why he and Percival spend so much time together, and part of his elation fades away. He stuffs the hand not holding flowers into his pocket, and walks quietly through the streets to the address Percival gave him not long ago.

The apartment is wide open, full of paintings and other artist clutter, and Steven makes a few comments that fall flat before he tosses Percival’s license onto a stack of papers by the man’s arm. It takes a moment for everything to click, but when it does, Percival looks at him with shock and trepidation. Steven is thrown—he thought that Percival would have been happy, or at least relieved that the men who attacked him were never going to hurt anyone ever again. They argue, and finally, Steven says exasperatedly, “Tell me something. Be honest. Somewhere deep down in your mind...you wanted me to kill him, right? Didn't you?”

Percival swallows and looks down at his palette, face unreadable. Suddenly, the spacious apartment is suffocating, and Steven clears his throat and asks, “You want to crack a window or something? It's...these paint fumes are making me nauseous.”

There’s a moment, a beat, and then Percival nods. “Yeah, I need some fresh air too.”

The words unsaid hang between them, something between “Thanks” and “That was too far” on Percival’s end, and “You’re welcome” and “No, it wasn’t, they hurt you” on Steven’s. The words prevent them from getting closer, taking up space that Steven wants to fill with reassurances (and possibly apologies; he didn't understand exactly how much it meant to Percival that no one got hurt on his account). Somewhere along the line, this man has become his friend, and the least he can do for him is say something to make him feel better.

The words stick in his throat, and he goes home with an unfulfilled ache in his stomach.

* * *

 

The arcade is a blessing in disguise, bad pizza and all. It’s the first time that Steven has ever seen Percival happy, truly happy, especially when he’s snapping at him to shut the fuck up at the Whack-A-Croc. It’s even worse when they take turns at Skee-ball.

“You know, you’re supposed to go for the highest score. It’s not golf.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me concentrate. This is fuckin’ hard.” His next toss putters sadly down into the 100 slot, and he curses under his breath. Percival laughs, stepping forward, and scores a 500.

Steven almost punches him.

The shooting game doesn’t give them any tickets, but it’s fun nonetheless, and when they leave with the biggest damn stuffed animal Steven has ever seen, he’s never felt more proud.

Back at his apartment, he tries to find the _book_ , that _damn book_ , and he’s so relaxed that Percival’s question about Annie catches him off guard. He snaps to _leave him alone, for god’s sake_ , and Percival quits with the gentle humor that seems to be his trademark. The book is nowhere, and for a brief moment he’s afraid he’s lost it, until it appears in one of the many boxes stacked in his closet. “Ah, got it. Found it. Percival!”

When he steps out into the hallway, Percival is gone. The bear stares at him mockingly from the couch, as if to ask him if he really thought that the good times would keep rolling.

* * *

 

 

In the cab, the adrenaline is like electricity in his veins, and he babbles on in the voice mail, not caring how sappy he sounds. “None of this...none of it could have happened if it wasn't for you. For that I thank you. And the deal's off, you hear me? The deal's off. Money's yours. Besides, Percival… the world's better with you in it.”

He really means it, and hopes that Percival can hear the sincerity in his voice. His arm pulses with his heartbeat.

_Thank you._

* * *

 

Percival’s not returning his calls, but that’s okay. That’s fine. Steven has found something to live for, something wonderful; he’s a hero, he saved a life instead of taking one, he can be better. He can be everything Annie deserved, and hopes that she can see him, wherever she is. When he thinks of Annie, he pauses, remembering that opera season started soon. Tickets would be for sale. After deliberation, he decides that he should go, and buys tickets the next day. It doesn’t matter what opera it is—all that matters is that he goes with her in his heart.  
The night of the performance, he stands in front of the mirror in his room and straightens his bow tie. For a moment, he can see her next to him, smiling, in that beautiful green dress, the smell of her perfume in the air. When he blinks, she's gone again, but this time he isn't as nervous. When he reaches his seat and settles in, he realizes just how long it's been since he's been anywhere nicer than a bar. It's nice. When the lights dim, he leans forward in anticipation, and watches the curtains part. The music swells over him, covering him like a safety blanket. It does what the small record player in the flat is unable to—it swallows him whole, immerses him in the notes, and he forgets about his life, about the people he’s killed, about everything but Annie (and a certain man with an eyepatch who sits next to her in his hallucination, his smile lighting up the whole row, but that’s no problem at all).

Three hours later, he leaves, the warmth of the theater still wrapped around him like a shroud, the music woven into his suit, settling into his bones. He hesitates at the crossing, remembering the pain of all those years ago, but he thinks of that conversation on that balcony as he turns to call a taxi.

_You have to face what you are really afraid of. What are you really afraid of?_

He’s about to take a step when he sees Percival—not a hallucination this time, but a drunk, staggering Percival who looks close to tears. He mutters “What the fuck is he doing?” and flinches in shock when a motorist nearly rips Percival’s head off. His feet hit the tarmac, flesh strikes flesh, and they go down an inch away from the speeding car that nearly killed them both. When he gets his bearings back, he chuckles, muttering into Percival's ear, “You honestly thought that was going to work? Jumping in front of traffic, really?” He’s not even angry, just amused—he knows as well as Percival does that getting hit by a car is no big deal anymore.

Instead of answering, Percival sobs, painful sounding noises that claw their way out of his throat. Steven says, alarmed, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Percival chokes out, “Christopher was taken away from me.” And Steven thinks he understands, so he tries to help Percival up, murmuring comforting words as he does. Instead of taking his hand, Percival puts something in it, and when Steven sees the button he almost loses it right then and there.

He can’t believe it was Percival. He refuses. It’s not just because it was Annie—it’s because he can’t imagine the other man as a killer, like he is. Percival, sweet Percival, who cried when Steven killed a man he barely knew, who got upset when his attackers were taken care of. Who he had played Whack-A-Croc and Skeeball with less than a week ago. Who walked around like there was a ghost following him, always looking over his shoulder.

_I don’t understand why you feel so fucking guilty about it._

Percival sobs, on his knees like he’s ready for confession, but all he says is, “Fate brought us together. All this happened for a reason, Steven. Annie, Christopher, you and me, everything.”

Steven doesn’t have an answer for him. He pulls his gun, the only way he knows how to deal with problems, but Percival doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t look scared or angry. His face is full of acceptance, of relief, like he’s being offered forgiveness.

_I forgive you._

_Thank you._

_There’s an ice cream truck on the next corner, I think._

His arm burns, the letters a brand on his skin, and he can’t do it. He can’t. Percival is his friend, his only friend, but _he killed Annie, he killed her, and he has to pay._

He runs, pushing himself until his legs give out underneath him. They’ll meet again, he thinks darkly. They always do.

 

* * *

 

 

The roof is cold this time of year, and Steven’s glad he has his jacket. Even through the warm layer, he’s shivering, arms shaking like they haven’t done since he was young.

Percival is on the edge of the roof, facing out, and he’s shaking too. Steven squints, raises a hand to his eyes, and discovers he’s crying, silent tears that run down his cheeks and drip onto his collar.

When the shorter man turns, a wobbly smile paints his face, and he steps a little closer to Steven. His shirt is open, hastily buttoned, and Steven can see the beginning of his mark on his collarbone.

“Hello, Steven.” Percival’s voice is much more even than he expected, but he follows up immediately with an almost desperate, “I can't do it, you have to. But, before you do, I need you to forgive me first. Please, Steven, forgive me for...I'm sorry.”

Steven steps closer, breath shaky, and what he means to say is “I can’t do that” but what comes out is “What did your mark say before Christopher died?”

He's avoiding the big picture, dancing around the issue here. He suspects the truth, and he knows Percival does too—this is the end of the line. There is no one else to say the words. His mark throbs like a wound, and all he sees is simple script, burgundy, swaddled in white cloth.

Percival speaks, his voice small and broken. “I didn’t have one. I was born blank. When I was eighteen, I got a tattoo on my leg, to act like… like I was normal. Christopher never knew.”

Steven swallows. _Why didn’t you tell me?_ “What did you get?”  He doesn’t know why he wants to know—it’s not like it matters. But that part of him that didn’t allow him to pull the trigger earlier murmurs that perhaps it’s because he’s jealous that Christopher still has a part of Percival, even though the words he would know by heart were artificial.

The shorter man looks Steven in the eyes, all calm acceptance, but he’s still shaking like a leaf. “I love you.”

 _I love you. I forgive you. Thank you._ The words echo around Steven’s head, blurring together (and when he thinks about it, don’t they mean the same thing?). He speaks, his voice low, and hopes that Percival can’t see the tears on his cheeks. “When you tried to kill yourself the first time, the new ones… they just showed up? Just like that?”

Percival nods. “Just like that. Like I said; it’s all out of my control.” He’s almost unable to finish the sentence, dissolving into tears, and says brokenly, “I’m so sorry, Steven. I wish I didn’t have this curse, I wish I had been able to just die the first time. Please, Steven, please, forgive me.”

_I forgive you._

Percival doesn’t have to die until he says the words, so he refuses to speak, unwilling, unable. Annie’s face is there with every blink, and his arm hurts so badly, and he doesn’t want to have to make the choice.

But Percival is looking at him like he’s the key to salvation, and he can’t deny the man this. Not when he’s worked so hard for this moment. He nods, once, but a noise pushes itself past his lips and before he knows it, he’s crying, truly sobbing and Percival pulls him into a hug. They clutch each other on the rooftop, and the unsaid conversation passes between them, something like _I can’t_ that’s refuted with _you have to,_ and eventually, one of them gives. Steven pulls away just far enough to kiss Percival’s forehead, murmuring into the skin (Like a promise, like a blessing), “I forgive you.”

There’s nothing left for him to say. All his words are used up, all his roles fulfilled. The only thing left is for Percival to say his last words, and then… and then…

They come like a blow, like the car so many years ago, and Steven is left standing alone before the words even make sense.

“Thank you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As it turns out, marks can be quite the grammar police. If you have a period in there, there's a period in real life. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, it's entirely possible to have a partner whose words match the ones on your arm... but yours don't match theirs. Sometimes love takes different forms, and it's hard to tell one from another.


End file.
